


Step From Where You're Standing

by sassyjumper



Series: Tiny House [4]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 00:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1284913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyjumper/pseuds/sassyjumper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson helps House decide on a new career path.  Set post-finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Step From Where You're Standing

 

 

 

 

“No. Absolutely not.” Wilson put his hands on his hips and nearly stomped a foot.

“Well, I’m not actually asking your permission, sooo…” House bent down to grab a beer from the mini-fridge. One good thing about the tiny house was that the beer was very, very close to the lounge chair.

House flopped onto said chair, just as Wilson released a familiar sigh of fed-up-ness. “House. San Francisco is over an hour from here. And with this…event you think you’re attending, who knows how long you’ll be gone?”

“Aw, boo, will you miss me?” House fluttered his eyelashes.

“Nooo. I’m worried you’ll get in an accident, or get pulled over, or have some sort of run-in with the law. And all you have is a fake Texas driver’s license and a forged birth certificate.”

House took a swig from his beer bottle. “Good point. The solution is for you to come with. You can drive and perform all run-ins with the law.”

Wilson stared at him. “You think—There is no way I’m—No. Not happening.”

House couldn’t help but smile a little. “What? Are you afraid you won’t measure up?”

Wilson’s cheeks colored ever so slightly, and House felt his smile widen.

“Forget it, House. I am not going to a—a…”

“Just say it.”

“A masturbate-a-thon,” Wilson whisper-yelled.

House feigned confusion. “I don’t get you. We have a chance to engage in hours of self-gratification, among untold numbers of strangers. All for charity. I don’t see a downside.”

At Wilson’s look of disbelief, he cheerfully added, “We can go to the co-op to ask for pledges. You can even hit up your little yoga friend.”

Wilson did his head tilt of _Are you kidding me?_ “Yes, I’ll call her right now. ‘Hey, remember me from the co-op? I wondered if you’d like to pay me to rub one out?’”

House sighed; he was beginning to think Wilson liked being obstinate. “OK, I’ll say it again. The money goes to charity. And you’ll be rubbing _way_ more than one out, by the way.”

“Uh, no I won’t.”

“There’s no shame in masturbation, Dr. Wilson,” House said as he grabbed his laptop from the floor.

“I realize that, Dr. House. It’s the public display I have a problem with.”

“Well,” House drawled, clicking on the bookmarked Masturbate-a-Thon site, “that implies a sense of shame.”

“All right.” Wilson turned to start pacing, but stopped abruptly when he hit the kitchen sink. He whirled around. “I admit to having a healthy concept of shame that keeps me from displays of public lewdness. I’m oddly OK with that.”

“Except for that bachelor party with the duck,” House muttered as he scanned the masturbatory FAQs page. “Ah. Here it is. The world record for longest time spent fapping is nearly ten hours. By some guy who flew in from Japan.”

He looked up at Wilson. “I have to restore our national pride.”

“You’re a true patriot.” Wilson paused and made his squinty _thinking_ face. “Wait. So the Japanese reign in hot-dog eating contests _and_ masturbation?”

House nodded. “There’s got to be a connection…But back to the real issue. Are you coming or not? Pun very much intended.”

“I think I’ve made my position clear.” Wilson crossed his arms for emphasis.

“Fine.” House shrugged. “Guess it’ll just be me and the Honda Civic, tearing up the freeway for some _auto_ eroticism. Get it?”

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, and after a few seconds of apparent internal debate let his arms drop limply by his sides. “You know what? Go ahead. Have a ball—pun very much intended.”

House was a bit surprised, but hid it under well-practiced nonchalance. “I plan on it.”

Wilson nodded. “Just follow the speed limit. And civic laws in general.” He looked around then, like he was surveying their surroundings. “Actually, it’ll be nice to have the whole place to myself.”

House scoffed. “Oh, yeah. What _will_ you do?”

Wilson levered himself onto the kitchen counter, which just barely accommodated his now-bony ass. “I’m capable of having fun without you.”

House polished off his beer. “In your tiny house, in organic yoga land?”

“Drink and debauchery are not the only ways to have fun.”

House waited, thinking Wilson would explain his grounds for that statement. But clearly he had none.

He shook his head. “Well, don’t get too excited. I’m not really going to San Fran.”

Wilson gaped at him. “What? Then why did you just—”

“Because I have nothing else to do but screw with you,” House said impatiently.

As soon as the words were out, the truth of the sentiment made him wince. So he decided to distract himself by attacking Wilson.

“I was just trying to push you into agreeing to it,” he said, in his best condescending tone. “You keep acting like you’re this changed, easy-going, tiny-house guy. But you’re still uptight.”

Wilson opened and closed his mouth a couple times before aiming an index finger at him. “Wait a minute. If you’re such a free-spirited rebel, just go by yourself. Or are you the one who’s uptight?”

House mock-pondered that. “Nah,” he concluded. “I just think it would be hard to stay aroused around a bunch of naked ugly people. Check out the pictures from last year’s festivities.” He angled the laptop toward Wilson.

“Thanks, but no. So let me get this straight. If I don’t wanna go, I’m a fuddy-duddy. If you don’t want to, it’s perfectly reasonable.”

“Nooo. You’re a fuddy-duddy because you say things like _fuddy-duddy._ But yeah, the rest of what you said is accurate. Anyway,” he added, interlacing his fingers behind his head, “I fit in plenty of mini-marathons right here.”

Wilson’s eyes widened. “You…What?”

House met his stare. “I haven’t had sex in…I don’t care to think about how long. What do you expect?”

Back in Houston he’d been able to take care of things in the shower. But in this tiny house, where only high-speed showers were possible, he’d had to move the operation to a less private area.

_And that sums up my love life,_ House thought dimly. Not that it had been a roaring success previously…

“Oh, uh. Yeah.” Wilson’s stammering brought him back to the present moment. “I mean, of course. I just…I’ve never, y’know, heard you.” He looked away quickly.

_Hmm. This could be amusing._ “Really?” House furrowed his brow. “Because I get pretty passionate with myself—”

“Yeah, got it.” Wilson held up both hands. “Let’s just drop the topic, OK?”

House considered that. _Nope._

“For the record,” he pressed, “I’ve never heard you, either. And it’s very quiet here in Granola Town.” He jutted his chin toward the loft. “Are you just innocently snuggling with your stuffed moose up there?”

Wilson grimaced and slid off the counter. “I think we’ve gotten enough mileage out of this masturbation discourse.” He started toward the front door.

“I understand,” House said sympathetically, making Wilson halt in his tracks. “The neuropathy in your hands is making it hard, isn’t it?” He cringed a bit. “Ooh. That pun was not intended.”

Wilson crossed his arms and didn’t turn around. “I’m not having this conversation.”

“Reality begs to differ. Anyway,” House said, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair, “you don’t have to take care of it yourself, you know.”

Wilson slowly turned around, and House noticed that the color was back in his cheeks—even the tips of his ears. “Wh—what?”

House hesitated. He hated backing off when there was still entertainment to be had, but he suddenly felt unsure whether he should push this particular subject.

So he shrugged. “There must be some tiny hookers in this town.”

Wilson huffed in frustration, but his posture visibly relaxed. “Yeah. I’ll look into prices. Maybe we can get a two-for-one deal.”

House nodded. “Great.”

“Great,” Wilson agreed. He looked down and shuffled his feet awkwardly. “OK, well…I’m going out to the garden.” He turned abruptly and walked out the door.

House stared after him, not quite sure what had just happened. He’d always been crude with Wilson; he didn’t even think twice about it, and Wilson had always seemed unfazed. But this time there’d been a shift in the atmosphere that House couldn’t ignore.

On the other hand…Yeah, actually he could.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. He and Wilson were the same. They’d added cancer, a fake death, leaving medicine, buying a tiny house, and a few other things. But they were essentially the same. Because that’s how it worked.

House pushed to his feet. He needed another beer (or _the_ other beer, since the fridge only held two), and something salty and crunchy. He was sure he’d seen Wilson pulling something like that from his canvas grocery bag yesterday. He opened their two kitchen cabinets and quickly spotted a promising foil bag.

He grabbed it and looked at the label. Dried kale.

“ _Dried_ kale?” he said out loud. “It actually gets drier?” He tossed the bag back into the cabinet in disgust.

OK. Certain things had changed.

 

******

 

Another beer later, House remembered that the solar panels had to be moved. That had become his job because the panels were on wheels and easy to maneuver. He kind of resented having to perform any earthy task, since this was all Wilson’s doing, but their electrical supply—and, ergo, access to porn and current events—depended on it.

Plus, solar-panel duty gave him an excuse to go bug Wilson.

Once outside, he found Wilson crouched in his garden, resting his head in his hands—which these days was enough to set off House’s internal Wilson alarm.

“Hey,” he barked, maneuvering through the neat rows of future peppers, summer squash, spinach, and whatever other wholesome crap Heidi had planted. “Is there a problem, Dr. Green Thumb?”

Wilson shook his head slowly, but otherwise didn’t move. “Just tired.” He sighed. “And I’m thinking.”

House looked at the large plastic water thingy—water spike, if he remembered correctly—lying by Wilson’s feet. “Thinking is hard work,” he conceded.

Wilson looked up at him and squinted at the sun. “What if you taught kids how to play guitar?”

House was momentarily thrown by the unexpected turn. “Um…Good question. What if you auditioned for a modern dance company?”

“No, I’m serious.” Wilson plonked onto his butt in the dirt. “It’s a way for you to work without any of the messy legalities.”

House tapped his cane on the ground. “That’s the idea you’ve come up with? I should teach earth children to play _Kumbayah?_ ”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “You can teach them _Painted Black._ C’mon. You love music and you love kids.”

House shook his head. “No, I tolerate kids. Big difference.”

“For you, tolerance is an expression of love.”

“I’d say tolerance is how most people express love.”

“Fine,” Wilson agreed. “Thank you for making my point.”

House frowned. “OK, but you’ve forgotten an important detail. Children typically have parents. And I do not tolerate them.”

Wilson blinked and House smirked in triumph. “You find me some musical orphans with discretionary incomes, and I’ll consider it.”

Wilson closed his eyes. “House,” he said wearily. “You have limited options.”

House gripped his cane. He was getting tired of hearing about how small his world had become. He was painfully aware of that every morning when he woke up, and for the rest of the day until he fell asleep.

“I think we’ve been through this already,” he said. “I’ll worry about me, you worry about you.”

Wilson sighed. “I’m the one who’s officially alive and has a social security number. I’m not worried. You, on the other hand—”

“There’s got to be a social security number lying around that I could borrow,” House reasoned. “Illegal immigrants do it all the time.”

“No,” Wilson said sharply. “Identity theft is not the solution.”

“Why, exactly? I can steal a number from a baby. They won’t need it for, like, eighteen years.”

Wilson lay his forehead in his hands again.

“What’s wrong with you?” House demanded, hoping he sounded more annoyed than concerned.

“I told you, I’m tired,” Wilson mumbled.

House felt his chest tighten, but tried to ignore it. He couldn’t freak out every time Wilson coughed, or looked pale, or acted pissy—especially that last one. Still…

“You know,” he said casually, “all that San Fran talk reminded me. We do need to take a drive soon. Have you talked to that UCSF doctor yet?”

Wilson shook his head without looking up. “Not since the conference call with Chiu. It’s too early for a follow-up.”

“I don’t think so. You’re exhausted from watering your peppers.”

Wilson finally looked at him, with a scowl. “It’s normal to tire easily. I lost a lot of muscle mass—”

“Yeah, your rippling muscles are no longer.”

Wilson let out one of those low growls that were intended to warn House. They rarely worked.

“House, if you’re worried about your pain-med supply, I can get my prescription from Chiu filled here.”

That was the good thing about having a roomie suffering from post-chemo neuropathy. Wilson had told Chiu the Lyrica wasn’t enough and asked for a narcotic side dish—giving House a new Vicodin pipeline. But no, that wasn’t his concern right now, which Wilson knew full well.

“Actually, I care about whether you continue to exist,” House informed him. “So I can keep getting my pain meds, of course.”

Wilson sighed then scratched at an eyebrow. “I know…I’m—I’m in a mood, I guess.”

House recognized that as Wilson’s way of apologizing. “Guess so,” he agreed, which was his way of accepting. “And is this all because I made fun of your inability to get off?”

Wilson dropped his chin to his chest. A moment later, he looked back up. “So you’re saying ‘no’ to the guitar idea?”

House rolled his eyes. “You are the worst with conversation transitions.”

“You’re clearly bored out of your skull,” Wilson insisted. “You need to find some kind of challenge before you lose it. Or I do.”

“Yeah, well, your guitar idea would be like the musical version of clinic duty.”

“OK,” Wilson huffed, clumsily hauling himself to stand. “You don’t wanna be a murder mystery writer. You don’t wanna be a guitar teacher. What _do_ you want to do?”

House squinted. “That might be the weirdest collection of statements you’ve ever strung together.”

Wilson crossed his arms.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” House groaned. “Private eye.”

He wasn’t even sure why he’d said it. It wasn’t really true. Not entirely.

Wilson opened his mouth and looked poised to unleash some what-for. But then he paused and looked off to the side, in that way he had. When House noticed Wilson’s left eye going wonky, he knew he was in trouble.

“That’s,” Wilson said, sounding awestruck. “That’s perfect.”

House was taken aback. “You’re kidding, right? ’Cause it’s cray-cray.”

“Why?” Wilson demanded. “They get paid under the table all the time, don’t they? And the job takes intelligence, curiosity, questionable ethics—all your strong suits.”

House couldn’t argue with that. He had plenty of other ammunition, however. “I can think of some obstacles. I don’t know how to be a P.I., for instance.”

Wilson eyed him. “Seriously? You don’t know how to dig for the truth? You don’t know how to _tell_ the truth? You don’t know how to invade people’s privacy?”

_What the hell?_ How was Wilson insane yet making so much sense?

House shook his head. “That’s a little different from being an actual P.I., you idiot. If curiosity were enough, do you know how many cat detectives there would be?”

“And,” Wilson blathered on, “you had on-the-job training with Lucas. Not to mention over twenty years of experience stalking me.”

“Right. I’ll put that on my business card.”

Wilson turned and started pacing along a narrow strip between vegetable rows. House detected a slight limp, but was quickly distracted by flapping hands and an excited voice. “You could be, you know, a part-time P.I. In between teaching kids guitar, or…”

Wilson whirled around, eyes wide. “Wait, wait.”

House stepped back as Wilson came at him with a wildly firing index finger. “You could get a gig playing piano at a bar. And—and that’s where you’d meet your clients. Down-and-out drunks who think their spouses are cheating on them.” He giggled with glee.

House held up a hand. “OK. This is not one of your 1940s _film noirs._ This is actual life.”

Hands flew to hips. “Yes, I forgot. Just a typical humdrum life where you fake your death, take a motorcycle road trip, get your best friend through cancer treatment, then buy a tiny house. And that’s just a recap of the past year.”

“Yeah, yeah,” House dismissed. But he had to admit, he was already losing the will to fight this one.

He leaned on his cane and looked down at the rows of greenery, letting his focus roam to the other end of the plot, where there was a trellis for the tomatoes. Wilson was growing a fucking garden. A year ago, even that would’ve seemed ridiculous.

“You need a license to be a P.I.,” he said, keeping his eyes on the trellis.

“In Sebastopol? These freaks live in tiny houses.”

House looked at Wilson, who was now grinning ear-to-ear. The last time he’d seen that, Wilson was flirting with the yoga woman at the co-op. House preferred to be the one who made him smile like that.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll consider it.” He was tired of being the voice of reason in this tiny house anyway.

Wilson kept grinning like an imbecile, so House ducked his head and tapped his cane in the dirt. “You realize this means you have to leave me alone now and work on your own _raison d’etre._ Because there is no way you’re using me as your sugar daddy.”

He glanced at Wilson, just in time to catch the tiny waver in his smile before he responded, smooth as ever. “Right. I’ve taken advantage of you for far too many years. But maybe your P.I. firm will be hiring an assistant.”

“You mean like a secretary?” House asked, furrowing his brow. “I don’t know if they make pencil skirts in your size.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “No, I mean like a…helper guy. Someone to do the footwork that cripples can’t.”

“Yeah.” House sneered. “I could really use a guy who’s nerve-damaged and afraid of spiders.”

Wilson just shook his head. “I’ve got a few more of these to fill,” he said, pointing at the water spike by their feet. “Why don’t you take care of the panels?”

“That’s what I came out here for,” House informed him. “Your mopey routine distracted me.”

Wilson help up his hands. “Apologies. Please proceed with your work.”

House nodded and began to limp away. But before he rounded the corner of the house, he looked back at Wilson.

He was crouched low again, trying to pour water from a large jug into the water spike. Water was splashing on the ground, but he was managing to get some of it into the plastic spike. Then, when it was almost full, Wilson lost his grip and the spike fell over. He was able to right it before too much water spilled out, though. And then he picked it up and carried it to one of his pepper rows, where he stuck it in the dirt.

It was better to water that way, Wilson had told him. The water would feed the soil slowly and steadily for hours.

_Good,_ House thought, watching Wilson move to retrieve another spike. _That’s good._

He turned and went off to do his job.

 

*******

 

“So,” House said as he carried their dinner plates to the sink. “Speaking of parents…”

“When were we doing that?” Wilson inquired, setting their folding chairs against the wall.

House turned and leaned back on the kitchen counter. “Like, three hours ago. The guitar-kid thing?”

“Ah, of course. Forgive me.”

House waited until Wilson settled himself in his little nest of pillows on the floor. That was where he liked to read while House camped out on the lounge chair. It was only fair, since infarction trumped peripheral neuropathy.

“I was thinking,” House said, gripping the edge of the counter. “Are you planning on letting mom and dad know you’re alive?”

Wilson looked up sharply, and House shrugged. “I mean, they may have figured it out. But really, for all they know, you drove off the edge of a cliff, or threw yourself into the ocean. You could be somewhere no one can find you.”

“I think that’s exactly where I am,” Wilson said pointedly.

House nodded and made his way to the lounge. “True.” He plopped down with a grunt. “But it couldn’t hurt to call them. You don’t have to play dead just because I am…Copycat.”

Wilson silently worked his jaw. House knew he was treading into dangerous territory, and he’d been letting this topic go untapped for a good while. But lately, the fact that no one from their old life knew about the remission was starting to bother him. He couldn’t fully grasp why, but it somehow felt less real if only he knew about it.

Or maybe, he thought, Wilson didn’t quite believe it was real.

“I don’t,” Wilson began, keeping his eyes down. “I don’t think that would be wise. It would just complicate things.”

“Why?” House persisted. “You just say, ‘Hey, Mom, so I got some chemo and stuff, and didn’t die. How’s Dad?’”

Wilson snorted. “Yeah. She’ll start bitching that he’s playing too much golf.”

House waited to see if he’d say more, but as expected, Wilson remained tight-lipped.

“ _Someone_ out there knows,” he said. “You’re still paying into COBRA, the hospital insurance is still—”

“Who cares?” Wilson broke in, looking up at him. “Listen, I am not calling my parents. That’s it.”

House was a bit surprised at the strident tone. He’d anticipated a refusal, but a guilt-ridden one. “Wow, Dr. Nice Guy. That’s a shockingly cruel attitude.”

Wilson shot him a murderous glare. “OK. I know what this is. You’re feeling guilty about your own mom.”

House’s gut clenched, but he forged on. “What I feel is irrelevant. I can’t call my mother. You can.”

Wilson shook his head and laughed humorlessly. “My mom is not like yours. Your mom…She’d be upset, but on some level, she’d get it. My parents…” He held out a palm. “It’s just better this way.”

“Are you worried they’ll ask you to come home?”

Wilson grabbed his overgrown curls with both hands.

“It’s OK if you take a trip, you know,” House pushed. “I have a dual P.I./musical career to launch. And a tiny homestead to tend to. I can stay busy.”

He couldn’t deny the sense of dread that flared at the idea of Wilson returning to New Jersey, even for a visit. But he tamped it down and stayed focused on the present moment—namely, Wilson’s refusal to look at him. And then, in an instant, he knew what the real problem was.

He swung his legs over the side of the lounge and leaned forward so he was inches from Wilson’s head. “Actually,” he said mildly. “I’m wrong, aren’t I? You’re afraid they won’t ask.”

Wilson let his hands fall away from his head, but didn’t look up. “I’m not _afraid_ they won’t,” he muttered. “I know they won’t.”

House nodded. He’d met Wilson’s parents, and talked to them over the phone. They’d always come off as polite, but he could never get a feel for what they were _like._ They were tough to read.

_Must be in their genes._

“OK,” House said simply. He’d have to trust Wilson on this one. Well, for the moment anyway.

“OK,” Wilson agreed. He finally glanced up. “Can I read my book now?”

House groaned. “Is it that stupid one you got yesterday?”

“Yes,” Wilson said curtly. He’d bought a book on mindfulness meditation—with the pretentious title of _Be At Home, Wherever You are,_ or some shit—because the yoga hussy had suggested it for post-cancer healing.

“Valerie said it’s a good way to honestly acknowledge how you’re feeling,” Wilson explained, sounding both defensive and unconvinced. “When you’re more honest with yourself, you can be more honest with other people.”

“Wow,” House said. “There is almost no chance of that happening.”

The corners of Wilson’s mouth twitched. “Maybe,” he admitted.

House eyed him for a moment. Just that afternoon, he’d accused Wilson of being as uptight as ever. But that wasn’t really true. He was still a wreck, but he wasn’t the same person he’d been a year ago, or twenty years ago. And in his head, House could acknowledge that he wasn’t either.

“Actually,” he amended. “I take that back. You’re more honest than you used to be. Definitely less repressed. I mean, look at your hair.”

Wilson ran a hand through his unruly locks and gave a small, sheepish smile. “There’s no time for conditioning in that tiny shower.”

House rolled his eyes, then nodded at the book. “Go ahead and get enlightened. I’m gonna see if I can watch _Devious Maids_ for free.”

“An equally noble pursuit.”

House allowed a small smile and then watched out of the corner of his eye as Wilson curled up with his book. A year ago, everything about this moment would have seemed absurd. And now…the thought of what could be a year from now was slightly terrifying.

On the other hand, House thought as he opened his laptop, it was definitely not boring.

 

 

**_—TBC_ **

 

**Author's Note:**

> The San Francisco Masturbate-a-Thon is real, and takes place in other cities, too. Every May, during "Masturbation Month."


End file.
